I am crying, "Foul!" for one and all to hear. Myrtle is a cheat. Period. End of story.
Here I am, mostly, doing my business out of doors in a proper like manner. She doesn't want me going on the living room floor, nor on the brown grass upstairs. Fine. I am trying and trying and trying so hard most of the time I am exhausted. A fellow simply cannot take enough naps in a day.
So, when we went down into the basement, when Myrtle kept me down there for a couple of hours, naturally, I took care of my business on the concrete floor. What's a fellow to do? And, FOR THE RECORD, all of Myrtle's hooting and hollering, all of her anger and disgust and disappointment have been over my indiscretions on the first two floors of the house. She never really made it clear that the basement floor is also off limits!
IT IS NOT FAIR, THEN, THAT I HAD TO SUFFER A 30-MINUTE TIME-OUT ALL ALONE IN THE KITCHEN FOR ONE STINKING LITTLE MISTAKE!
I am thinking that someone needs to have a talk with Myrtle about getting her story straight. She needs to be very clear just where it is that she does not want me to do my business. This is a huge house, with plenty of flat surfaces, that, to my mind, absolutely do not differ all that much from the flat surfaces out of doors.
Inside. Outside. Inside. Outside. How is a fellow suppose to keep track of where he is? Plus, we spend all our time inside. So, what, really, is the problem of my taking care of business inside?
And Myrtle's foot has been hurt for a couple of months now. Was it not rather thoughtful of me to not make her climb up the stairs and then come back down so she could finished her laundry? All she had to do is pick up my small deposit and flush it down the toilet that is right there in the basement.
Well, she also had to wipe up the floor a bit. But she was complaining that the concrete floor needs to have a proper scrubbing. I just gave her a head start.
SIGH. See? There are all these reasons, all these positive constructions Myrtle could have put on my actions. But, no, none of them matter. I am punished, once more, for something that was not--if you really consider the matter--my fault!
This is my life with Myrtle. Amos Adams signing off!
The problem with your "little mistake," Amos, is that it was a STINKING little mistake. A pungent stench that announces itself in a rather straightforward and unabashed manner tends to magnify the size and unpleasantness of any deposit it accompanies.
ReplyDeleteYou might try telling Myrtle that if she fed you bacon any odor from your deposits would be as fragrant as all the oils of Araby.